Knock, Knock

For the last four years, together with my husband Nick and our two Labradors, I’d been living a typically normal country existence in Kent. We lived in a traditional oast house, drank local beer and took our dogs on walks through apple orchards. Being only 38, 39 and 21 dog-years respectively we were beginning to think perhaps we were too young to be living the retired dream. So when the opportunity to move to Belgium came our way we thought why not, it’s only 100 miles from England, it’s a similar culture, we’d been on work trips there and we felt we knew the place pretty well.

We were duped! Yes, it’s only 100 miles from Kent but here in Aalst that’s where the motorway from Calais and our preconceived ideas ended. We’ve been here for 3 months now, we’ve bought a house, employed an architect to rebuild the house, rented another house and between contracts and visits to solicitors realised this is as foreign a country to us as China.

On a daily basis I’m left with my mouth ajar at some experience, sighting or exchange I’ve encountered. Yes, the red tape, languages and social differences you can read about and try to prepare yourself for, but it’s only when you land here on planet Belgium you realise you are indeed an alien.

I could tell you about the trams (don’t park on a tram route unless, like us, you aren’t too attached to your wing mirror), don’t be surprised if the lady in the corner of the bar buys everyone a drink. Also don’t be surprised if the lady in the corner is in fact a man in an ill-fitting cocktail dress. Invites to people’s funerals you never knew are normal. As are visits from the local priest (you could offer him tea but he prefers Trappist beer, Orval being a particular favourite). And what’s wrong with having an ostrich in your garden?!


No, what I want to share is an early experience that still leaves me feeling mortified at my stupidity and lack of, well in this case, a bra…

Unlike the UK, identity cards are the norm, no-one here thinks Big Brother is watching and civil liberties still seem to be intact. The importance of having an ID card can’t be overstated, you need to produce one for so many aspects of everyday life, opening a bank account, starting a business or even getting your ironing done. Yes really.

Part of the identity process is an interview at your home by a local policeman, the idea being they check you actually reside there and you’re not a ‘criminal type’. You don’t know when he’ll knock but without his OK, there’s no ironing!

Our knock came on a Sunday morning at 8.30 (7.30 UK time!). I was in bed and Nick was out getting croissants. Yes, the uniform and unfamiliar grey moustache should have been a clue, but I was half asleep and thought it was my husband returning with pastries. I just opened the door, turned, shouted back an order for coffee and told him to come back to bed as soon as possible as it was freezing. I’m not sure who was more surprised.

My bad cop interview was conducted in our living room; I was only wearing a John Deere t-shirt. No bra, no make-up, no hope of ever being considered an outstanding member of this community. I was so nervous I forgot my name, my husband’s occupation and when asked what I did for a living, instead of saying an experienced, well-respected freelance graphic designer, I just pointed upwards and said I worked from home. I couldn’t see his notes but I’m sure under occupation he wrote down ‘Madam’.

I’m still waiting for my ID card but the croissants, when they finally arrived, were delicious.



Aalst U Blieft